Preface

Uh, am back on Blogger after a bit of gap. Has it really been five years since my last post? Hmm, feels like ten, somehow. Also, I cannot unfollow all those blogs I was following years ago as the widget has been confiscated. I did follow someone's advice on 'how to unfollow' on their blog, but it didn't work for some reason. Perhaps Blogger got there first and snipped all this 'unfollowing' tendency in the bud, as they think it's not cricket, or something. Tough if I want to start following something new and want to let people know that I'm following it. Tsk, all because I'm too embarrassed to admit that I followed the Lily Rose Allen blog all those years ago. And she's posted less than I have. It's a true Marie Celeste of blogs. I have one of those too. I left it on my profile as a curiosity, for people to puzzle over. It is the blog with the totally-impossible-to-remember-name about Mary Vetsera, the teenage lover of Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria. It still gets the odd hit, mainly from Hungary, according to the stats. However, if you do happen to come across it, don't read it, just look at the pictures. 

Ah, yes stats. Hmm, not bothered about those for the moment. I mean, I'm still feeling my way here. Very much a work in progress. Oh and I appear to be writing this in Pacific Daylight Time, which must be a bonus and sounds much sexier than GMT.

I know a lot of blogs recommend stuff, but you won't find that here and I won't be monetising either--I'll probably be moaning about something I'd otherwise moan about on Facebook. So be warned. Anyway I want to wrap up now, as I think this is quite enough for one day (or night depending on PDT etc). I'll end with a poem, I think. NaPo is coming up in April, but I'm not sure if I can manage one poem a day. Last year I crashed and burned in the middle and then recovered and limped on to the end like one of those marathon runners in novelty costumes. I did make it. Perhaps I'll make it on here, too. Bye for now.

Caffè Nero Sketch

'a primo cappucino, please'--

weak tea versus two expresso shots

in a milk white face--

a livid Anne Boleyn  about to lose it.

Her portcullis raised,

I'm swiped with a look of contempt--

she would have preferred a little hesitation,

squirming on the spike

of some shambling prevarication--

she lays down a tray sopping wet, 

a saucer with rattled spoon

and returns to the scaffold--

knocks and bangs, rams in and twists

and so begins the slow rich torture drip

of an executioner’s bitter enema

as the steam pipe whines

to a shriek and the raven flaps its wings.

My traitor’s cup is set before me

a fine head of speckled foam blooms over the lip--

‘Anything else?’

(I could do without the smirk)